Scars to Remember
by Dib's Kat
Summary: Professor Membrane volunteers Dib as a subject for his latest experiment, an attempt to end his son's fascination with the paranormal forever. Instead, he gives Dib a new view on who everyone is.
1. May 21 to 25

This is a take-off of the best book I ever read, Flowers for Algernon. If you haven't read the book, you should. I do not own the book and I'm not making any money from this so please don't hurt me. I don't own Invader Zim either. I had this posted once before but took it down because I felt it wasn't going anywhere. Well, 2 years later, it's back!

****

May 21, 2002

For some reason, my dad told me to write about things that happen to me and what is going on in my life. I don't know why it is, but he has mentioned it to me several times over the past few weeks, and I finally began today. Every time he says something to me about it, though, I get a strange feeling in my stomach like something terrible is about to happen and I break out in a cold sweat. Or maybe that's just because it's my dad, and he always makes me feel that way. I am Dib Membrane, 15 years old, I have a sister named Gaz, and my dad is Professor Membrane. What he has in store for me, I don't yet know, but I'm sure I'll find out soon.

He told me that if everything goes as planned; I won't have to go to the special needs skool anymore. I shouldn't be there. I don't have special needs. My dad just doesn't want to admit that I was the one to discover the paranormal in our midst. Everyone who doesn't believe me should be there, for living proof is right before them. It's that old classmate of mine, Zim. He's not a classmate; he's an alien. My life goal was to prove this to the world, but now it seems like that will never happen. But I just don't want to let the defeat get to me. For the sake of Earth, I must overcome the adversity. Well, it was talking like that that got me there, but apparently, talking that way could get me out. Still, I don't like where his plans are headed. I guess that's all for now.

****

May 22, 2002

Now it all makes sense. Dad has come up with some experiment to "purge me of my delusions." But he said that first he wants to analyze me by seeing how I react when tested. He took me out of skool early, and drove me to his laboratory in the intestines of NYC. I curled up in the corner of the car, not wanting to move, as all of my memories of this place were negative. Dark, sinister evils, chasing me, tying me down, silver jaws and teeth, snapping violently. His arm reached for me and managed to grab my wrist and pull me out. Once I was out, he slammed the door to keep me from returning to the safety of the car. My only other option was to root my feet into the ground and refuse to budge. This didn't work well, as he effortlessly lifted me and carried me inside as I screamed and pounded his back with clenched fists. He acted as if I did not exist; other scientists passed by us with looks of curiosity and amusement on their faces. Usually this is one of the things that irks me beyond belief, (such as the Irken race. That explains the roots of its name) but this time I was to flurried to care. While I was still screaming and carrying on, he plunked me down on the floor in the middle of a large room.

I tried to follow him out the open door, but he was too fast for me and shut it in my face. Frustrated I fiddled with the handle, but it was locked. I turned, defeated, and my eyes met a pair across the room. "Hello, Dib. I have been expecting you." It was an elderly man, his bald head reflecting the flickering fluorescent lights above our heads. Gray hair fell like a curtain from around the edges of the dome that was his head, and extended down to chin length. Bushy eyebrows masked small beady eyes, so it was impossible to tell exactly where he was looking. He was dressed not unlike my own dad, but was shorter, and his pants a gray pinstripe. I eyed him up and down suspiciously to see if I could approach him. I had known more than my share of people I had approached in the past and later wished I hadn't. He backed away from me and motioned for me to sit on a massive red chair, which leaked stuffing from all sides. I obeyed cautiously, examining the seat of the chair. Dust coated the chair, which I brushed away quickly, and seeing nothing else offensive, I pulled my trenchcoat tightly around myself and sat. He seemed to be watching as I did all this, which made me uneasy from the get-go.

Little was said for the first several minutes; we mostly observed one another in silence. I also observed the room around me, which was one I planned to try even harder to avoid in the future. The browning blue wallpaper separated from the top off the wall and peeled farther down as you went closer to the back of the room. The opposite wall was adorned with pictures drawn in crayon or paints, and most looked as if they had been done by very bored kindergarteners: thick lines and overly intense shades. These were less than easy on my eyes, and I removed my glasses to help alleviate the pain. The pictures blurred instantly, merging with the wall and one another. Holding my glasses up right in front of my eyes, I could see dust from the chair's stuffing building up on the lenses. I wiped them clean hurriedly; I hate not being able to see properly. As I worked on the glasses, the man from across the room broke the silence.

"Ah yes. Dib, let me introduce myself. My name is Mark. I have been working with your dad on the development of the experiment, which you may get to be a part of." The voice was friendly, and seemed genuine. Most adults talk down to me, but not this one. I can almost stand him. I put my glasses back on and looked up at him again. He smiled at me, and I managed to grin back. His hands rested on his knees, and he looked at me as if expecting something. I think his silence meant he wanted me to respond, but there was really nothing to say. Mark tapped his knees with his fingers and rose. I watched him cross the room, and retrieve something from his desk in the far corner. In a moment, he returned, holding a tablet with several sheets of paper clipped onto it. He flipped through them quickly, then raised his head again. His thick eyebrows climbed high above his eyes, suddenly revealing them.

"So, you go to Extra Mile," he said, looking surprised. That's me. Sophomore at Extra Mile High Skool. You can tell from the name that it is not a_normal_ student's high skool. "Yes," I responded, trying my best not to sound like that was my skool. He nodded and continued scanning the sheets. As he did so, a creak sounded from behind me, and a woman all in white was at the door of the room. "Is Dab here?" I turned in the chair, looking over my shoulder, in no mood to have my name confused. "It's DIB." I answered. "Yes, Professor wants you home now." Mark nodded at me, and I rose and headed for the door. I was actually in no hurry to go despite my aversion for the room itself.

I went to wait near the door for dad to catch me, but he made no appearance. Eventually I got tired of waiting and walked the four blocks from the lab to our house. Sure enough, there was dad, putting together some toast for dinner. I sat and thoughtfully chewed on mine, which was more than a little burned. Dad called for Gaz, who was lying on the living room couch, gaming away as usual. She placed her GameSlave on the table and came sulkily into the kitchen, staring hatefully at the toast on her plate. As soon as I was finished, I made a dash for my room, but before I had even left the kitchen, dad said, "Oh, by the way, you're going back to talk to Mark on Saturday." Talk? Knowing dad, this could not be a good thing.

****

May 25, 2002

Mark and I did more than talk this time. There were tests this time. When I first appeared in the room, he seemed almost happy to see me, as opposed to the fake happy expression adults muster just to win you over. Today, he pulled back the long gray wispy hair into a short ponytail. This revealed a pierced ear. For someone who looked so old, he was certainly an oddity. Like me. I eased up, seeing this quality in him for the first time. Again, I sat in the horrible red chair. One thing I can't stand is being surrounded by all that lint. There's something about it that just makes my skin crawl whenever it gets near me. Even when I try not to think about it, I know it's still there, which is far worse than simply accepting its presence. Once I was settled in the chair, Mark spoke.

"Welcome back, Dib. Last time, we didn't do much at all. Your dad suggested we work slowly so as not to frighten or bother you." What was that supposed to mean? I just don't like being put on display like some sort of circus attraction. That's more or less what I was in elementary skool. The "all eyes on you" feeling gets to me. I can't stand to be stared at. I know when people are looking at me just by a feeling I get. It's like their eyes shoot beams to bore through your skull, and see what you're thinking. This happens often, even at skool. Extra Mile High Skool is full of erratics, and these are far worse than my classmates from elementary skool. Most lack the capacity even to communicate, much less comprehend the fate that lies in store for the world when Zim has his way with it. This doesn't mean I will be regarded as any different, though. Teachers all speak to me slowly, as if I won't understand otherwise. At Extra Mile, they practically congratulate you for breathing. Each person has a reason for attending the skool, which is written in their file. Mine apparently is "emotionally disturbed." Some of the students who are more fully there seem to pick up on the humor as my previous classmates had. It's the usual snickering and taunting, but the edge of wit from these tongues is dulled.

Mark must have spotted the slightly pissed expression on my face, as he cleared his throat and moved on to the testing. He whipped out the clipboard from earlier in the week, seeming more focused this time. "All right, Dib. Just to start, we will try some word associations. We have all day, so we may try other things as well. But for now, I have made up a list of words, and I just want you to say the first word you think of. Any word at all that comes to mind. Do you understand?" He seemed so open and honest with me. But was he really like that? Or was it another trick? I dug my fingernails into the soft arms of the chair. This sent fledgling dust particles airborne, which bothered me. I loosened my grasp and nodded. I swallowed hard, wanting more than anything to be somewhere else. Far from these bothersome pictures and peeling wallpaper. Far from a dad who saw me as nothing more than a guinea pig.

"Average," Mark read off his list, casually. "Abnormal." What else could I think of? "God," was his next choice. "Anguish," was my next response. The eyebrows were raised again, but no comment was made. This continued for ages, until he reached the end of the list. "Green." I tried to suppress an automatic response, but there was no holding it back. "Men," I answered with no control over it. After he scribbled some notes down, he rose and retrieved something else from his desk. He returned again with a folder labeled 'inkblots.' I leaned back in the chair and he instructed me to look at each inkblot and tell him what I saw. I knew how this worked. I had seen enough sci-fi movies to know how the whole thing was wired. Mark held up one of the inkblots. Torture, pain, all things horrible. That was all I could think of. So I told him. "No," he said. "That's what it reminds you of. Tell me what you _see_."

I looked at it again, trying to turn it into some sort of image. Nothing was there but the concept of destruction and misery. I shrugged, and he put that one away, taking out another. "Distorted, deformed." I said quickly. He looked at me, expecting me to continue. When I did not, he said, "What is distorted and deformed?" He smiled, revealing yellowed teeth. I looked at the inkblot, fighting with it to form a picture in my mind's eye. No concrete images. Just ideas. I hated to think I was disappointing him, but I knew I was. He put the inkblots away and stood by his desk facing the wall for a long time. Finally, he just said, "You can go." I looked over at him, starting to answer. "No, it's okay. Just go." On the way home, I felt worse than ever for disappointing him like that. But it was true. All I could see was the misery I had told him of. What else could I do, make it up? And how could I see and explain seeing anything other than pain when that is all I have been exposed to?


	2. May 26 to 28

****

May 26, 2002

No one mentioned the tests, and I didn't have to take more today. Just as well, I've had enough for a while. But dad said I may have to take more on Tuesday. I'm sick of tests. I have enough at skool, but at least on those I am treated like a human, not some sort of lab experiment. I don't have any problems with skool tests, which seem to be geared toward those with few moving parts from the neck up. My homeroom teacher, Miss Sowerby, must be related to Miss Bitters from my elementary skool in some way. She must be over 200 years old, her bluing perm resembles an explosion, and her clothes are always wrinkled. Especially her stockings. Or maybe that's just her skin. It's hard to tell. (Not that I really want to) But class mostly consists of her insisting that we all know how to pronounce words correctly. Every day explains why she teaches at Extra Mile; she usually acts like one of us herself. Most of them are no different. The only teacher I can actually stand is Miss Palmer, my literature teacher. She is about the age of my dad, but considering her unconditional kindness, I can't imagine why she would choose this skool as her first job. I put full effort into my work so she will be proud of me. She is the only reason I do so.

The only time Miss Sowerby lets her "teacher act" go is when she goes off on me. She is convinced that I am emotionally disturbed, and acts like I'll suddenly whip out an axe and chop her head off. Since she started this whole nip Dib in the bud thing, that doesn't seem like a bad idea. Nothing I do brings it on. It just happens. I can't wait to get away from these classroom horrors as well as my dad. This experiment does not appeal to me in the least, although he is convinced it's for the best. The only good I can see coming out of this is people finally realizing that I'm not crazy. If there was scientific evidence that I am all here, then they would realize that listening to me is in the world's best interest.

Everyone I know thinks that. I have a job at Waldenbooks bookstore on weekends working the cash register, loading in new book shipments, and helping to keep the books organized. The best part of the job is just skimming the aisles, looking for a new read. I read whenever I take a break, and nothing could make me happier. It takes me away from here, and puts me in a new world, where I can be whoever I want to be. Tae and Rob, two of my classmates from elementary skool, work the same hours as me. It's a nightmare. I never know what they're thinking, and it always seems like they know what I'm thinking.

Zim works there as well, and he in particular doesn't see any problem with ordering me around like I am his personal property. He probably plans it to be that way: if he takes over Earth, he'll use it as his chance to spite me by making me his slave or something. I am not willing to see that day, as his presence is bad enough now. Everything I do is wrong. Today he yelled at me for not paying attention again. I was reading and lost track of time, and he found me leaning up against the bookshelf. It scared me shitless when he suddenly went off on me, "Dib, get your stinkbeast butt up here, we're swamped!" I feel like I always have to be looking over my shoulder for him; to make sure he doesn't catch me on break. Not that I don't anyway. It's like he's tailing me, trying to analyze my weaknesses to find the best way to get the better of me. But as long as I don't let him see me sweat, he may never find one. I hope not.

****

May 27, 2002

I should have known the testing wasn't over. Yet another chance for analysis of "the disturbed." Why me? I didn't want it to be me, and I don't give a shit about my dad's little projects! Why can't they just leave me alone? Gaz doesn't have to go through this, and she just sits around with a GameSlave all day! She knows about Zim's plans, but she doesn't care enough to tell the rest of the world. Her explanation of it would certainly be more accepted than mine, and could win over some listeners. How someone could stumble upon a secret that could leave innocent lives hanging in the balance and not care at all, I'll never know. I doubt that any amount of testing could ever explain Gaz anyway.

Once again, I found myself sitting on that horrible lint-chair and looking at Mark's smile of false teeth. It's not him I mind; it's just the environment and the purpose of all the discussions we had. Just when I thought we had gone through all the possible tests, we had to do another visual thing. Mark would hold up a picture from a magazine or a cut out from a book, and I had to make up a story about it. Was this a joke? Everyone thinks my account of Zim's mobilization is a made up story. Isn't that good enough?

Apparently not. Mark held up a picture of a man and woman holding each other under a bright sunset. "Tell me a story about these two people." I liked that picture. I wasn't sure why, but I wished I could be in that situation. Love. It was a foreign thing to me. I was more accustomed to aliens and all other paranormal beings than the emotion called "love." But it seemed far more warm and pleasant, as if it was something I should experience. So I told Mark about that. He sighed lightly, and answered, "No, Dib. A story." No one wants to hear my stories. I have written sci-fi short stories before, and attempted to get them in skool newspapers. I was often told they would be published, and every week, I would check the story section when the newspaper came out. They were never there. I even sent in an essay I had written, explaining Zim, and exposing him for what he was. Not only was this not published, but I was dissed for writing it in the Skool Society section! I never wrote any more stories, and I certainly didn't want to bring more of this on myself.

"I don't know. I'm not good at making up stories." I couldn't tell stories about these people; no one would listen. They would just say, "Can you even tell the difference between your little fantasies and the real world?" I have heard that more times than I want to remember. My mom used to tell me stories, and that is what led me to write my own, but once she was closed her ears to me one day, I no longer had anyone to listen to them, or to me in general. The worst part is, I never even knew what happened to her. She was a major part of my memories, then suddenly, she was not there anymore. I can't even picture her anymore. All I see is blur.

That was that. He put the pictures away and the test was over. "You can go, Dib." He said. It bothered me when he said that. But at the same time I was happy that the test was over. I know I should have been glad to be freed from there, but seeing Mark disappointed with my stubbornness made me feel guilty. At least it may get me out of the experiment.

That test reminds me of something from skool earlier this year: in literature class Miss Palmer had us bring in pictures of us from when we were little. Then we traded with each other, and had to write poems about the pictures we were given. I ended up with a photo of a mindless-looking boy digging in the dirt with a stick. I wrote:

__

"This is a photograph of me

Empty of all thoughts

This Frees Me

From pain

Time

Spent searching

Is completely wasted

In the wretched hourglass

Of this atrocious paranormal world."

I hated that poem. It hit too close to home for my liking. I feel like the boy in the picture, dazedly searching through nothing to find some phenomenon no one even cared about. When I turned it in, Miss Palmer asked me if something was bothering me. I said no to get her off track, but of course something was bothering me! I could end up being a human guinea pig, an alien is trying to take over the world, and my dad is making my life miserable. But other than that, nothing is wrong.

****

May 28, 2002

Called back for more testing today. I thought I had gotten out of it yesterday! Bye bye guilty conscience, hello inhumane testing. Mark was waiting for me, still seeming happy to see me. (Why, I don't know) Today, he said, "We're not going to stay here today. This time we're going to the lab for a test." He didn't sound terribly excited about it, either. We went out the door, and down several halls and through a large steel door. Once inside, we were surrounded by the latest works of science. It was incredible in a horrible, twisted way, when I considered what it might have in store for me.

We passed vials of bubbling liquid in various sickening colors, metal creations beyond the confines of the imagination (second only in magnificence to Zim's handiwork), and finally we came to a separate room filled with countless animals. Some appeared normal and content, while others had hair or appendages missing, others lay dead in their filthy cages, unwatched and unwept. It broke my heart to see anything left to such suffering, which was made worse by the fact that this was at my dad's hands. I could be next on his list. And he doesn't even care.

Mark shook his head as he eyed the still form of a dead monkey. Death had certainly come upon it days before. Patches of its hair had fallen out and lay on the floor of the cage. I crouched down next to Mark for a closer look. Pulling on some rubber gloves, Mark reached in and lifted out the stiff monkey. A lump burned in my throat when I caught a glimpse of the monkey's hand. It was contorted and disfigured beyond all recognition. It was hairless, and where several fingers were missing, sharp spikes remained, and odd protrusions extended from the remaining fingers. Blisters covered the hand as well. I turned my head away, nauseous, only able to picture my own hand there, twisted into some horrible scientific creation my dad's crooked mind had managed to dredge up. Possibly the best monkey for the Scary Monkey Show.

The monkey was placed in a box and went back into the main laboratory. I followed Mark on this expedition, because the idea of being alone in that animal room was more than I could stand. I would rather face my dad himself than the bloody empty eye sockets, robotic limbs, and human organs growing on the backs of hairless animals that existed in that hellhole. It was too easy to imagine myself in their place, locked in a cage, and being dissected for some heartless experiment.

Mark laid the monkey box on a table and labeled it "Specimen-583-hfa." He saw my questioning eyes and answered solemnly, "Here-For-Autopsy. That's happened to most of his test subjects lately. Very few things last long after he 'works his magic.'" I was still staring at the monkey box, only half listening. "But," Mark continued after a pause, "There is one that has been doing better than ever since its experiment." Mark led me back to the animal room. I didn't want to go, because the thought of seeing those animals again In pain Dying He seemed to understand and continued into the back of the room alone and retrieved a small animal in a cage. He kept going, and I followed him down a hall until he stopped at a large metal table. He set the cage on the table, and sat in a chair on one side of the table. I sat on the other side and looked into the cage. When Mark first carried the cage past me, I was sure that this was a mouse or rat, but now I could clearly see that it wasn't. It was a hamster.

Mark must have seen me smiling; it must have been the first time he had ever seen me smile for real. "You like her? Her name is Pepsi." Pepsi! As soon as I heard the name, I knew why the hamster intrigued me as it did. When I was in Mrs. Bitters's class, we had a class hamster named Peepi. I wonder if they are related. At least my dad's hamster experiment doesn't look like what Zim turned Peepi into.

By the time I had gotten this far, my train of thought was halted by Mark setting up something on the table. It looked like a maze, but it was brightly colored and full of holograms and optical illusions. "This maze requires you to think logically, and use common sense. Pepsi does this maze every day, but we change it a little so she is always thinking." Mark placed a hamster treat at the end of the maze and lifted up the door of Pepsi's cage, and she ran into the maze. She scurried through the unforgiving passages and soon reached a dead end. She didn't stay there long, and quickly retraced her steps and shot down another passage. In an instant, she reached the end! That was a complicated maze. How could a hamster figure it out?

Mark placed an old, chapped hand on my shoulder. "Now it's your turn to try it." I wasn't sure what he meant, but he explained it. "You get to race Pepsi. There is a big maze in the other testing room, just like Pepsi's. That's for you. We were supposed to run this test last week with the others, but it wasn't ready yet. Now that it's finished, we can see how you do."

We crossed the hall, and on the other side of the hall, there was a door marked, "Psycho-Analysis Maze." Mark opened the door, and we went inside. The room had to be close to the size of one floor of my house, and the maze was at the other end of the room. A table was near the door, and when Mark had retrieved all of Pepsi's racing equipment, he laid it all out on the table. Then he led me to the other end of the room where the entrance to the maze was. He opened the door, showing me the inside, which was plain white, not colorful like Pepsi's. I asked him about this, but he told me, "I haven't turned it on yet."

While I stood at the door, he told me, "You can't see what I'm doing when you're in the maze, but I will be able to see you. That is meant to help you concentrate on what you are doing and let me make sure you're doing okay. And when you hear a bell, that means it's time to start." He can see me, but I can't see him? I didn't like that idea at all. Anyone could come in and see me and I wouldn't even know! They could do anything, stare at me, study me, kill me

He shut the door, and there I was, alone in the maze. Everything was still completely white. It was blinding! Then, I heard a noise, and the whiteness around me disappeared and I was surrounded by colors, shapes, patterns, passages coming out in every direction. A bell rang.

Listening solely to my impulses, I ran blindly into the maze with no clue where I was headed. I was racing down a corridor that looked as if it went on for another 10 feet or so, but it was a dead end. I continued back up the way I came, feeling along the wall for an opening. As I did, I fell through a hologram that appeared to be a section of wall. I flailed my arms, trying to regain my balance, but I ended up on the ground. I looked up to see what appeared to be a modern work of art: shapes, bright colors, and protrusions extending from the walls. Or were those the walls? I'm not sure, because I was so dizzy from the look of it I couldn't even tell which way was up.

I rose to my feet, bracing myself against a wall, and feeling blindly along the wall for a door or something, anything. I continued crashing into things that I couldn't see, and I fell through doorways I didn't know where there. By the time I reached a wall that appeared longer at the top than the bottom, it felt I had been in the maze far too long, an eternity. I must have been so lost in my confusion I didn't hear Mark say Pepsi had reached the end of her maze. He told me later that she was done in only a few minutes.

I wanted to finish the maze. How could I let a hamster beat me? I leaned against the topheavy wall and looked around, trying to analyze my surroundings. There were doors everywhere, and from where I stood, it appeared as if the floor twisted up sideways onto the wall and ceiling. All the patterns and confusion I was trapped! How could I be trapped? I ran more aimlessly than ever through the passage, until my knees buckled and I collapsed. My body felt hot one minute, then I was afraid I would freeze. I shivered with the cold, and with the fear that I would suddenly jump up and try to break out of the maze. My hands and feet tingled until I could hardly feel them anymore.

My eyes had been tightly shut, but in a moment, I was sure I heard my name being called over and over. A hand touched my shoulder. I opened my eyes to find Mark standing over me, and the walls brought back to their whiteness again. He helped me up, but my numb feet didn't want to carry me out of the maze. Mark helped me get to the end, and led me to the table where Pepsi sat, happily eating treats at the end of her maze. Mark patted me on the back and said, "That wasn't bad. Pepsi was just like that her first time in one of those mazes." I smiled weakly, still regaining my composure from the run. I must admit, I'm impressed. If my dad's experiment could get a hamster from my level in that maze to a pro maybe this is better than whatever the monkey experiment was. Mark told me it was getting late, but I probably will be racing Pepsi again before long.


	3. May 31 to June 10

****

May 31, 2002

Skool is finally out for the summer! I slept until 9 o'clock this morning, and went downstairs for breakfast. Gaz was still asleep, so I had to make sure not to wake her up. Dad was sitting in the kitchen drinking coffee, and I sat at the other end of the table. Mark had almost certainly told him about my performance in the maze. What would dad say to me? Not much. He didn't seem to notice I was there, just like usual.

Finally, he spoke. "Mark told me" He had heard. Would he try to lock me up again? If he was, he was being very calm about it this time. "that he thinks you would be a good choice for the experiment. He thinks you possess the exact qualities that the experiment is supposed to counteract. What worries me, though, is that you could suffer other mental problems. What he tells me is that you are in 'perceptive overdrive.' He says you pick up on things the rest of us don't, but I am convinced it's simply delusions." That last statement sent a twinge of hatred through my veins. He tells me right to my face that I am deluded! Well, it's better than telling everyone I'm insane as if I can't hear him and don't understand. He probably does think I can't understand.

After a sip of coffee, he continued. "The experiment is designed to purge you of all the delusions and hallucinations you suffer from in your day to day life. Your 'aliens' won't bother you anymore." He was severely pushing it. I felt like I would jump up and strangle him against my will. I gripped the seat of my chair, nervously, trying to hold myself back. "What could happen, though," he went on, "is that your senses will be dulled too much, and you would be a vegetable. Or possibly something would go wrong leaving you worse off than you are. Or maybe the experiment will have no effect. You will be the first person to ever be tested; it has only been done on animals, like that hamster. What's its name again, Poop, is it?" He didn't even remember the hamster's name. "Pepsi." I answered. He smiled, nodding his head. "Ah, I knew it was some brand of cola. But anyway, _Pepsi_ was the first success we had with it. In previous trials, nothing happened at all. I just want you to be prepared for any glitches in the experiment. If you agree, that is. You know, I can't force you to do this. You deserve to make your own decision."

I had to consider this one carefully. I could barely remember this man taking part in my life before, so why did he deserve this favor from me now? This was more than a favor; this could mean life or death. I wanted to say no. I was beyond afraid of what would happen to me. And more than that, I didn't trust my dad to keep me safe. My brain screamed, "No! Say no!" over and over. But for some reason I can't identify, I said yes. One thing I considered was how people would see me as a whole new person at skool next year. Then they would know I'm not crazy.

****

June 1, 2002

The experiment is scheduled for June 5th, but I'm being moved into the lab until then so they can monitor me for now. At least I don't have to be near the animal room. I will sleep on a cot in a room near my dad's office. More people know about the experiment than I thought. Nurses, secretaries, and scientists from the lab all came to encourage me. It was freaky to have all these people I don't even know come up and tell me that it will all be okay. Apparently, they are putting a tiny chip in my head. The idea of my dad working on my head isn't comforting. I don't want to be awake during the operation, but I really don't want to be unconscious and not know what he's doing to me.

I felt better when Miss Palmer stopped by because she knew I was here. One of my dad's guards wouldn't let her, but I got out for a minute to talk to her anyway. She had a blonde girl from my literature class with her. That was Kat. I had heard she was there because she was suicidal and did all these strange things to herself, but no one I know is really sure. She only came to Extra Mile last November. Miss Palmer said, "Hello, Dib. How are you doing?" I told her I was a little tired, but okay. Kat smiled at me and told me she would be thinking about me all the time. It was odd to hear that from a girl I barely knew. Kat and I had worked together on a literature project once, and that was the only time we had ever really interacted. But still, I remembered it. It was nice to know someone didn't think I was a lunatic. I smiled and told her thanks.

I talked with them for a while about nothing in particular, but it made me feel more relaxed than I could ever remember being. Then someone who works for dad said I had to go back in to run the maze. I didn't really want to, but I said goodbye to Miss Palmer and Kat. Kat said, "I'll come see you after the operation if I can." I said okay, and she left. It was strange. I had never felt this way about anyone before. There was actually someone I was looking forward to seeing.

****

June 6, 2002

It's all over. The operation was yesterday. When I woke up this morning, there were cards and all sorts of boxes and bags all over the room. I wanted to sit up on my cot to look around at it all, but my head hurt like hell, and it feels too heavy to lift. It's mid-afternoon now, and I can get up and move around for a while, but sometimes that makes me feel dizzy. Gaz left me some old pizza, Miss Palmer and Kat gave me the latest Linkin Park CD (I've had my eye on that), and dad left some novels on my nightstand.

I remember almost nothing that happened yesterday, but I remember what happened before the operation. Some doctors put me on a table in a small room near the maze room. I didn't like all the green hands, green faces, green bodies all around me. Green. I can only relate that color to bad things. Zim, for one. Now these doctors. I wanted to hide from their prying eyes and sharp tools, but when I moved to get away, I realized that I was being held back. While I was concentrating on the "green men," someone had tied me down. Well, used steel restraints to keep me from moving my arms or legs. I hated the feeling of being trapped, and tried harder to evade their pull on me. Silence. No one responded to me; I just heard words and phrases all jumbled together. Then a voice that sounded like dad's said, "This will go fast, Dib. Count backwards from one hundred." I didn't like that because that was what they told me to do before they took my tonsils out when I was seven. I never felt like I really dropped off, and all through the surgery, I swear I could feel my insides being jostled around. But the worst of that was the blood. The bitter smell of it made me pass out finally, but not before feeling the worst physical pain I have ever experienced. I say 'physical' because the tonsils can't compare to some things people say.

I started counting, but didn't wake up until the evening. They had left bandages on, but took most of them off this morning. I'm hungry, but Gaz's pizza doesn't look like anything I want in my mouth. When I looked at it closely, I think I saw something move. Miss Palmer may come to see me tomorrow when I can have visitors. She called dad this morning but he said I needed to rest.

What worries me about this whole thing isn't the operation or dad's checking in on me. It's what I could become. If I forgot the truth of behind Zim's masquerade, or simply didn't care anymore, what would happen to the world? No one would be there to keep Zim at bay, and he could have his way with it. I don't want it all to disappear. I just want them to believe me. So everyone will know I'm not crazy. Mark asked me how I am. I told him I was okay, but he told me to tell him more about how I feel about things. More about when I'm scared or know something is wrong. That happens a lot, so he shouldn't be disappointed.

Mark also asked me if this was really my own decision. Until he asked, I thought it was, but now I'm not so sure. He asked, "Is this really what you wanted, or was there another reason?" I told him I thought that if I had this "sanity-inducing" operation, people would believe me when I told them about Zim.

"Every time I warn them about the plot he has in store for the planet, they don't listen to me," I said. Then Mark said something I didn't expect, "I believed you. Miss Palmer believed you. Kat believed you." Whether that was true or not, I'm not sure. Even if it was, three people aren't enough. The whole world has to believe me.

****

June 7, 2002

Miss Palmer came today. She told me Kat said hi but couldn't come today because she wasn't feeling well. The whole Kat thing was an all around puzzle, so I asked Miss Palmer what was going on. She told me, "When I told the class about your part in this experiment, only Kat seemed to care about it. She told me later that she liked working on the project with you and wanted to spend more time with you. She says you always seem like you are alone." She's right. I am alone. There's no one who actually wants to be friends with "the psychopath," so that's pretty much what happens.

"But why me?" I asked. Miss Palmer looked out the window, then back at me. "Dib, I don't know why you are so afraid of letting people be close to you, physically and emotionally. If you give her a chance, I'm sure you will get along." It's not that I don't like the idea of having a friend, someone who will always help me in the fight against Zim, but I never thought it would happen. And what would make her choose me, of all the boys at Extra Mile? All I know is every time someone has "gotten close to me" before, it ends in leaving me worse off than I was, with one more person thinking I am insane. That's gotten to be a long list. Oh well, it doesn't matter. It won't be long before Zim's secret is out and he will be out of my mind. That will be a day to remember!

Speaking of remembering, Mark asked me if I remember anything about when I was younger. I asked why, and he said he was just curious. When that comes from an adult's mouth it always mean more than just curiosity. I don't remember very much that happened to me before I was about 9 years old. That might be because I tried to shut out things I don't want to remember. He told me I may start remembering soon. I don't know what that means, but I think it has more than a little to do with the experiment.

****

June 9, 2002

I am out of the lab now. Dad took me home last night. I'm glad that I don't have to live there like a lab rat anymore. But it isn't much better because even though I'm out now, I spend almost as much time there as I did before anyway. I still have to do tests and race Pepsi, though. It's no better than the first race I had with her: an entrapment of fear and confusion. Why do they want to do this to me? They operate on me and use me as their bizarre little creation for everyone to gawk at, then keep the torment continuing. I'm not overreacting. No one would be able to stand the tricks and dead ends that lie in that maze.

I don't see why they have to change it every time. It's not like I ever understood it the first time, so I won't be able to figure it out the second time, or even a third. But Mark says, "No, your dad wants to make sure you always get something new to challenge you." No, I'm pretty sure my dad just wants to see me fall through holograms and crash into walls. There is a movement sensitive camera in the corner of the ceiling over the maze. I can't see it when I'm in the maze, but after a few visits to the maze room, I noticed it up there, ready for me to make mistakes. I try not to think about it, but it's like that feeling when you know someone is watching you. Except this won't go away. It follows you, not letting you out of its sights for an instant.

Pepsi is so full of herself. She always wins when we race. I try hard to get to the end, but the thought of everyone breathing down my neck, the frantic atmosphere I can't think straight when that is going on. If a hamster can handle all those things and I can't, maybe I do belong at Extra Mile and she can go the public High Skool. I could do better without the video camera. I really could. Now that I think of it, I'm not sure which is worse: thinking there's someone watching you, or knowing it beyond a shadow of a doubt. Maybe just thinking it is worse. The mind can create all levels of hell for itself, levels far worse than could ever exist above hell. My mind in particular. In a dark room, anything could be there, ghosts, goblins, _aliens_ I jump at the slightest sound. The echo of my footsteps in an empty hall always makes me whip around to be sure no one is there.

That happened a lot at skool. I was usually the last to leave because I wanted to make sure my folder was all in order and nothing was missing. I would check my locker over and over to make sure no one could open it, especially Zim. I would leave to walk home, but my echoing footsteps would convince me that there was a person following me, hunting me down, trying to take something back from me.

Dad called me downstairs for dinner after I finished writing all the other things I wrote today. As I look at the entry, it's more than obvious to me that the effects of the operation aren't taking effect yet. But Tae, Rob, and Brian will finally believe me when I tell them about the true nature of the cashier _Zim,_ who wants a lot more than a raise.

****

June 10, 2002

Kat called me this morning. I gave her my number two days before the operation when she came to see me. (I wasn't allowed to have any visitors the last day before the experiment; not even phone calls!) Today is her birthday, and she's feeling better. She asked how I am doing, and I told her that the operation must have went well, even though I don't know for sure because I slept through it. She laughed and said, "Hey, maybe I'll see you at the bookstore sometime. Which one was it you work at?"

"Dalton's."

"Yeah. I practically live at the library, so I'll try to come there." She paused, but then I heard a deep breath being taken, and she continued. "You are the only boy I know who doesn't treat girls like objects. And you want more than anything to protect a world that doesn't understand you enough to accept you. There aren't enough people like you in the world."

I wasn't exactly sure how to respond to that, but I told her, "You accept me."

We talked for about half an hour until Gaz said, "Dib, get off the phone before I threaten your manhood."

Later in the morning, Mark called the house today to talk to me. Between Gaz and me, the phone has been busy today. My right ear is ringing because I don't switch ears when I talk on the phone. I should start doing that! Mark said he felt bad because I seemed scared to come to test, so he asked if I wanted to have lunch with him today. I said okay, and we went to OffBeat, the coffee shop where all the poets and college students of the city go to talk about what's important, like religion and aliens. Things I actually care about.

The aliens part is more relevant to me personally, but religion has been a part of my life as well. My mom had some Amish relatives, and this gave her a tendency to be very religious as well. That's one of the few things I truly remember about her. Another was that I preferred her to my dad and something about her gave me a distaste for Gaz. Gaz and I were brought up as Christians, but both of us converted to the Wiccan religion at some point during middle skool. It seemed to suit us better. Mom and Dad saw it as fine for Gaz, but for me, I was in deep shit. I ended up locked in my room hearing my mom shriek, "Good Lord, he's possessed by demons!" and asking for repentance. But I don't think it was just the Wiccan religion. Gaz was more devoted to it that I was. That couldn't have been all there was to it.

OffBeat is a place where no one is weird. You'd think that it would be the type of place I could tell everyone about Zim and have them believe me, but usually everyone here is in their own circle of friends, and outsiders are talked to, but not listened to. That's the problem. I am too uniform with these people, they think I'm just another of them, high and hallucinating. I was showing people physical evidence that proves my theories on Zim, but not one truly understood the magnitude of what I was saying. An alien, walking among us, posing as a high skool guy, yet trying to come up with a way to take over Earth and destroy all humanity! When I tried my hardest to get this across to them, Mark took me by the arm and led me to a table telling me, "We can't tell anyone about this. If the wrong person finds out about it, God knows what they could do."

Sometimes I don't see the point of the experiment, and I wonder why I ever agreed to it. Nothing is coming of it, and all the work and testing does is keep me from my pursuit of Zim. And I'm tired of being forced into that maniacal prison they call a maze. My pulse quickens just thinking about it, but I know I will have to face it again all too soon.


	4. June 12 to 21

A/N: On Sunday, I'm leaving for six weeks! ::pouts:: I'll still be able to update because I'll have a computer, but I'm not sure how often updates will be. I'm hoping for the best.

June 12, 2002

I know the operation's effects will take a while to set in, but I can't wait much longer! I want the future to be now! Then I could prove myself… It's a funny thought that a hamster could be considered more sane than a human. I have every right to hate that hamster for giving me the image of one of those raving lunatics in mental hospitals. Every race is a crushing defeat. I don't stand a chance. If I never reach their standards for sanity, dad will not only be ashamed of me but he will also be angry at me for not meeting the expectations for the whole experiment. He'll find some way to blame it on me. And I hate writing about it all because I know I will only be looked down on for being 'paranoid.'

The worst offense came last night. I couldn't sleep, as usual, thinking about things. Lying on my side and staring out the window, I looked up at the sky, and watched the stars sparkling in their multitudes. Sentinels, watching over the planet, but not protecting us from those who enter among us to evaluate our weaknesses then make his move. Then I saw the familiar car in the driveway, which meant my dad was home. I turned away from the window to face the wall. I didn't feel like looking at him. The front door creaked open, and I could hear his heavy footsteps as he came inside. I must have fallen asleep, because I remember waking up thinking hours had passed. My throat was dry so I forced myself up for a drink. I passed the top of the stairs on my way to the bathroom, but there was dad, sitting on the couch, watching t.v., so I knew I hadn't slept long. I got my drink, but on the way back to my room, I tried to figure out what it was he was watching. It didn't look like Mysterious Mysteries, and it was too late for most of the science shows he enjoyed. But there was a mousy looking animal, and a man with a stopwatch. That looked too familiar.

It was then that I noticed the man turn to the side and a large structure came into view. Inside its transparent walls was a boy, and it didn't take me long to realize that it was me. It must have been one of the tapes produced from that horrible video camera in the corner of the room. I saw myself groping for a wall when there was none, and falling face first through the mirage. I crashed into walls that appeared to be open doors. I ran in circles, trying to get my bearings. My glasses had fogged up with sweat and hot tears of embarrassment and confusion, and not just in the video. I found myself reliving every moment of it, as I could recall being in the maze so clearly. In a moment, I wasn't at the top of the stairs at all, I was racing frantically through a tangle of corridors, confusing eye tricks, and holograms.

That wasn't even the worst of it. Being forced to relive something I tried my hardest to forget was bad enough, but what came next finished the job. I could see my dad's shoulders popping up and down in spasms. I knew he was laughing or crying, but I couldn't quite tell which. Then I realized it was both. He seemed to find some unearthly humor in my dilemma and fear. His laughter escalated until it echoed through the house. But there I could see me, fighting for control over my imagination, terrified beyond belief, and he saw it as something funny! How could he do that to me when I agreed to do him the favor of letting him use me as a test subject? If I could have done the maze, I would have. But it's not within my reach. Maybe it never will be.

****

June 13, 2002

In two days, I get to go back to work. Mark said they wanted to give me ten days to get back to normal after the operation. He said "back to normal" as if he thought nothing of it, but I can't imagine that my dad and the doctors meant it any other way than sarcastically. I'm glad to be going back to the bookstore, because they get new books in every week, and there's usually something I just have to read. Plus, the more time I spend at work, the less time I'll have to spend being tested. Mark says he doesn't want to stress me out by having me do too many things in one day. A doctor said, "Too much stress can induce hysteria in schizophrenics, and can even trigger it in people showing no signs of the disorder."

I wasn't thrilled at her diagnosis of me, but if it keeps me away from that maze, I'm not complaining. I want to tell Brian, Rob, and Tae about the operation so they would listen to me about Zim, but Mark told me that I can't tell anyone. I asked why, but he told me, "That's just the way your dad wants it." I'm sure dad just has some reason for his own benefit that it should be this way. He might be afraid I'll be the next deformed monkey. The only works of his people hear about are Supertoast, and the Perpetual Energy Generator. The things that _worked_. No one ever mentioned the animals I saw.

Mark also told me I don't need to write every day, which is a good thing. I don't want everyone to be able to look inside my head as if it is an open book. No matter how close you are to someone, there's really no way you could tell them everything.

****

June 15, 2002

I was back at work today. Not that I was in any hurry. I just wanted to read the books. When I came in the door, all the guys were staring at me. Almost like they knew… but they couldn't! It's classified. I hope. I want everyone to know about the operation's goals when its effects have become noticeable, but until they do, any knowledge of it would just be another opportunity to scorn me and put me to shame. They'd think I made it up, and ask if I still thought Zim is an alien. Really, they're the ones who need help. What "skin condition" turns you green?

I'm sure they don't know the truth behind it all, but their jeering hits close to home. I heard such things as "insanity is irreversible." I tried my best to ignore it, but their mocking faces said more than their words. My mind feels separate from my body, as if they are two parts randomly thrown together. They don't belong. The combination of the two does not seem to belong in the world that surrounds it, either.

I headed out behind the store, trying my hardest to lift a crate of books. Nothing comes easily for me, and this is no exception. Limitations are a frightening thing. In a life or death situation, someone being just a hair better than you would mean game over. I find plenty of limitations in the maze, struggling to find my feet. The box was too heavy for me to lift, even though it only contained about 100 softcover novels. I watched Rob pass me carrying two such boxes, and an edgy grin possessed his lips as he watched me struggle. His tall, athletic build is designed for this task. Let's just say mine's not. It's hard enough for me to hold my own head up, and with every humiliation such as this, it becomes increasingly harder.

I've had just about enough of Zim. He watched every agonizing second I spent struggling with that box. I saw his eyes narrow, and his "pupils" dilate. No doubt he was analyzing this weakness. Physical strength: poor. Coordination: average. In his as well as everyone else's opinion, sanity: nonexistent would fall in there somewhere. But it's so obvious to see his inhuman qualities simply by locking eyes with him. His gaze penetrates through anyone's body, far deeper than any human's eyes could probe.

Kat stopped by not long before closing time. Our phone conversation still stuck with me in my head, making this reunion that much better. It was great to see her, as I hadn't since that time at the lab. I finally had the nerve to ask her if she wanted to come to my house for dinner. Of course, nothing came of it. She is going to visit her grandparents in Oklahoma, and she will be there until the end of July. I'll miss her, and without her around, I could be set up for a lonely summer. She promised to call me sometimes, though. Well, long distance friendship is better than nothing, and she will be back by the end of the summer. Best of all, she will be back at Extra Mile. There is hope for the world!

****

June 16, 2002

Today was yet another example of how a hamster can bring a human to his knees. Those little black currant eyes of Pepsi's look up at me so innocently every time I pass her cage as if to say, "I'm not hurting you, Dib. I'm not hurting anyone." She probably has no idea what she's doing to me. Mark says it's incredible that the effects of her operation have held out so well. Apparently, she is the first subject to be tested to have any lasting effects (unless death counts as a lasting effect.) All that had come of previous tests were three-week results then insane idiocy and death. Dad was in a hurry to test it on a human but the doctors forced him to wait for true success before allowing him to do so. Two months of success on Pepsi was good enough for him. I have to admit, I am still uneasy about the whole thing. The recognized sanity part I like, but staying at their predetermined level means a dulling of my senses. If that happens and I no longer notice or care about Zim's endeavors, bye bye Earth.

Pepsi only makes the concept worse. I'm tired of competing with her only to find that I'm fighting to do something I will never be able to do. I can't figure out how she does it; how she masters the mazes with more ability than I could hope to. I'm just tired of being forced into these things… No, actually this is worse because I agreed to it. I had a chance to escape, but I missed it. But I couldn't even do that. Still, they might not care if I just don't show up. That mutilated dead monkey isn't missed. The image of that hand has haunted me ever since I first saw it. I can always picture its distorted digits reaching through the darkness for me, trying to cinch me in its grasp. And I'm not even as abnormal as it was. Everyone sees me as abnormal, but I know that there are psychotics lying shackled in padded cells who would make me seem perfectly sane in comparison. Those doctors don't need me.

****

June 19, 2002

I haven't gone to the lab since the last time I wrote. Mark called the house to ask why, so for the first time I gave him the answer he wanted. I told him, "I'm not my dad's science project. I'm his son. I hate the doctors and the tests, but most of all I hate racing that hamster." By now I was practically screaming, but it felt good. Even though it wasn't Mark I wanted to scream at, it was time to scream at someone. I wanted it to be my dad.

I heard a sigh from over the phone, then Mark answered me, "Well, we were going to put the racing on hold for a while until we see marked progress in you. But we won't know if there is any progress at all unless you come to the lab periodically for other testing. Also, we have something for you to help with your development."

Dad was at the lab, so of course he wouldn't pick me up to take me there. I got on my bike and rode to the lab, and when I got there, Mark was outside the door waiting for me. He took me inside and seeing the apathetic expression on my face, put a hand on my shoulder and said, "Dib, don't be put off by the amount of time this will take to accomplish. The time will pass anyway." Yeah, I thought, with me stuck in the role of the raving lunatic. How does everyone seem to know what I'm thinking? Mark must have known because he gave me the look and led me to the office where we had our first testing session.

He showed me something that reminded me of one of Gaz's GameSlaves. According to Mark, I'm supposed to put it on every morning and just let my imagination take over. I've never been told to do that before. He says it could help me get deep-ingrained memories and emotions out of my system and into the recipe for the continuation of the experiment. I don't know how that is supposed to happen. But he said finding out where the "problem" started will help find a solution. Usually, the jagged, angular zombies on Gaz's GameSlaves just make me nervous. Unless this is vastly different, I think it will only make things worse. But with nothing to lose, I'll have to try it.

****

June 20, 2002

I tried the virtual reality thing today, once in the morning and once in the afternoon. I thought the mazes were bizarre! The good thing about this was that no one was watching me. At least I don't think they were. Not knowing you are being watched and later finding out that you are is an unpleasant surprise. Another good thing about the virtual reality set was that I didn't have to do anything. I just had to lie back, and let it carry me away…

__

I was standing at the edge of a field, lined on one side by trees, regal towering pines. The sky was a dusky pale blue, and mist enveloped the entire environment. I could almost feel them condense on my face. The peaceful scenario was one I wanted to remain in forever, as all outside traumas were long since forgotten.

The breeze rustled the trees, and I felt the ground vibrate gently beneath my feet. When I looked off in the direction from where I felt it had come, my eyes met with a throng of armored horsemen, galloping across the field. A deep, burgundy flag trimmed in gold and baring a dragon-like animal in the center was exalted as the line surged toward me. The men were masked by silvered armor, and each horse was draped and hooded in material that resembled that of the flag. Still, in the face of all these men, swords drawn, I was stock still, unfazed. As if I knew why they were here.

I happened to catch a glimpse of my own body, which was more than my body. I was no longer clothed in my trenchcoat, t-shirt, and boots, but I was as regal as the approaching cavalry was. I was armored in gold, and held a helmet of the same metal in my hands. A sword was resting in a sheath that was attached to the saddlebag of the petit bay stallion standing next to me. I placed my helmet on my head, and mounted my horse. The cavalry had long since slowed to a walk, then halted.

The field was silent except for the snorting of horses and the breeze whistling through the pines. I turned my horse to face the mass of men, and all bowed their heads, looking to me in reverence. It was incredible. Empowerment. The men raised their heads, waiting to see what came next. I drew my sword, raising it for all the men to see. As I did this, a cheer escaped the mouth of each. I turned my horse away from them, and eased from a walk, to a trot, to a canter. The men followed my example, and we flew across the endless field, stirring up birds and animals in our wake. A group of men on horseback, similar to us in appearance, stood a few hundred yards down. Their flag, however, was a misty blue-violet, and a black wolf like animal occupied its center. Just as I prepared for the two armies to clash, I was brought back to my own body, lying still on the living room couch…

It was like nothing I had ever seen or heard of before. Me, the captain of a medieval army. Still, I saw no actual combat between the two sides, simply acknowledgement of me as a leader. I liked the feeling it gave me, though. I was a leader, undisputed and respected. The thought that people would entrust me with their lives was a foreign thing to me. I'm sure most people who know me are convinced that I would lead them on a suicide run.

I enjoyed the virtual reality experience, but had forgotten it by the lunchtime. In the evening though, something came to me. A memory, clips and phrases. All I could determine was that it was my first day at Extra Mile, and how I was terrified of all the people who surrounded me. I was so frightened and consumed by the other students' menacing façade that I found myself lost in the skool's grim channels of halls. Fragments of plaster were missing from the ceiling, and it was far darker and filthier than my previous skools. I careened through the halls hoping to find some way out. Instead, I found a teacher who offered to help me find my next class. I told her it was English, and she told me that she was the English teacher. She also told me, "My name is Miss Palmer, and if you have any problems, you can come talk to me, okay?" I nodded my head, and found myself almost able to trust this teacher. That was all I remember, but I wonder where exactly it came from.

****

June 21, 2002

I had nothing to do today. No work, no tests, nothing. So I decided to catch up on my paranormal studies after putting them on hold for far too long. When Gaz was in the kitchen eating breakfast, I took her camera out of her closet, and went to Zim's house. Once I got there, I peeked through Zim's window to see him pacing back and forth, telling his little robot something I couldn't hear. Neither was wearing any sort of disguise. The opportunity was there. I snapped picture after picture of Zim striking dramatic poses. I wish I could have recorded what he was saying. Then there would be no way to disprove me. When the world sees this undeniable evidence, they will have to believe me. I know this didn't work last time, but last time I got caught. And this time, nothing can go wrong with it. Zim has no clue that his world is doomed.


End file.
